


soon we'll be without the moon

by Siria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy took him to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soon we'll be without the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheafrotherdon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/gifts).



> Thanks to dogeared for sassy cheerleading and patient betaing! A belated birthday gift for Cate. 
> 
> Title from "Let's Face The Music And Dance".

Peggy wasn't old enough to remember the Great War. She'd grown up with just its echoes—the uncles she'd known only from the studio portraits they'd had taken in still spotless uniforms; her mother's round-shouldered posture every time they'd passed the Cenotaph. Peggy thought of her mother now as she stood on the pier. The wind coming in over the Channel tangled her hair around her face while she held her back so carefully straight that it ached. 

It should have been a relief, to stand on a dock in wartime and watch the same number of men file off a boat as you'd waved onto it eleven days before—to know that one small battle at least had been won in this interminable war. But there were no shouts of greeting from the Commandos, no cheerfully off-colour remarks designed to make her roll her eyes and chivvy them up to the waiting trucks with the promise of thermoses of hot, sweetened tea to take the dawn chill from their bones. There were just the sounds of the sea, of wood scraping against stone, and instead of Sergeant Barnes there was the German scientist, cowering and cuffed, propelled up the gangplank with Sergeant Jones' hand clamped firmly at his elbow. 

"Welcome back, Sergeant Jones," she said. 

"Agent Carter," he said, nodding at her. His smile of greeting was genuine, but his eyes were tired. "Dugan's been sitting with him."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Peggy said, and stood back to let him continue on up the pier, the German trying desperately to keep up with Jones' much longer strides. 

The rest of the Commandos filed past her—Dernier, Morita, Falsworth, all in travel-stained mufti and looking in dire need of a good night's sleep—and then Dugan, head down and fists clenched, looking like nothing so much as a bull that had been gored and was now spoiling for the charge. When he raised his head, however, he seemed as weary as the rest of them, and managed nothing more than a tip of his hat and a quiet "Ma'am" by way of greeting. 

"I shall wait here for him," Peggy said, taking refuge in a brisk, matronish certainty, because it was that or think of the sound of half-muffled bells, of the dark slash of an armband around people's coat sleeves. "We'll follow you up, Sergeant. Don't dawdle—we managed to get our hands on some real coffee, don't let it grow cold."

"Couldn't do that to you, ma'am," Dugan said, with a flicker of a grin because the members of this team did rather seem to self-select for sheer bloody-mindedness. He nodded at her before heading on up the pier, heavy tread ringing against the stone, and then it was just Peggy and Steve. 

It was odd. Peggy had met Steve before the serum, when running a mile had been a feat beyond him and he'd had to look up to meet her eyes. Yet in all of her memories of him, there were none that showed him as he seemed now—small somehow, vulnerable, despite the breadth of his shoulders and the long legs that carried him off the ship and towards her. He moved, she realised, as her mother had every Remembrance Sunday—as if the worst blow had long since fallen, but his head was still ringing with the force of it.

*****

There were reports to be made once they returned to London—to Colonel Phillips, to Whitehall, to the various other SSR officers who needed either to be informed or placated. Peggy got through everything as quickly as she could, but the politics of it all always seemed to take more time than the actual conveyance of information. It was past four by the time she emerged from Major Harrington's office, feeling tired and in desperate need of a cup of strong tea, but she was soon waylaid by one of the communications officers who needed her help with a communiqué. 

"It's not that we can't transcribe the dashed thing," the man said as he hurried her along the corridor, pushing his glasses up his nose, "but it's riddled with slang, and my French isn't quite up to snuff. Give me something in Latin to construe and I'm your man, but hey ho! Tompkins tells me yours is pretty decent—but then finishing schools do like to make sure that their girls are _au courant_ , don't they?"

He smiled at her as he spoke, that kind of smile that Peggy loathed most—indulgent and indifferent all at once because what he was smiling at wasn't Peggy but the kind of simulacrum he imagined her to be. It reminded Peggy of being fifteen and suffering through the school hols. Freddie had brought home two of his loathsome friends from Charterhouse, and even Peggy pinning one of them to a tree with a rather neat shot from her bow and arrow hadn't stopped them from considering her a _nice girl_. It would probably be about as much use now, to explain that Peggy had never been to finishing school and that she'd learned her most idiomatic and indeed colourful French while liaising with maquisards in the Auvergne.

By the time she was finally ready to leave the SSR for the evening, it was getting on for six o'clock and no one could tell her where Steve was. 

"He left about an hour ago," Falsworth said, "but he didn't say where he was going."

"You let him leave by himself?" She couldn't keep the note of incredulity from her voice—while 'responsible' might not have been the first word she would have chosen to describe Steve's team as a whole, she wouldn't have thought them likely to leave Steve alone on an evening such as this, either.

"With respect, Agent Carter," Falsworth said wryly, "I don't quite see how I could have deterred the man."

Peggy stuffed her gas mask into her purse, grabbed her coat and headed out into the steadily deepening twilight. She could hear announcements about the imminent blackout, about the curfew, but Peggy knew this part of the city well enough to navigate despite the gloom. Besides, she could think of only two places where Steve might be, and neither of them were far away—the room where he bunked with Barnes whenever he stayed the night in London, or the Lamb and Flag. She didn't think he'd be returning to the barracks any time soon.

She rounded the corner to find that Wilsons' Haberdashers must have taken a direct hit sometime the night before—brightly coloured zips and ribbons littered the rubble like so much confetti—and the pub next door scarcely looked any better. Both buildings seemed lifeless, but some instinct told Peggy to go inside anyway, picking her way carefully over half bricks and fallen lumps of plaster as she tugged off her gloves. Inside was that strange mix of utter destruction and preservation that so often was the aftermath of a bombing raid—one of the walls was gone, windows blown in and much of the furniture splintered like so many matchsticks, but the bar itself was still largely standing, the glasses and bottles of whiskey which lined it mostly unscathed. 

And there was Steve, sitting alone in the dark with a bottle and glass on the table in front of him. Not ideal, certainly, but Peggy could hear the soft, choking sounds he was making. Better that kind of grief now, no matter how maudlin its expression, than a refusal of it. Peggy had seen that make too many people turn inward, hate-filled, and Steve was many things, but he was never cold. Sometimes one night with the bottle could be a solitary but necessary wake. Peggy knew that from bitter experience.

She chose her seat carefully—near enough to be a comfort, just far enough away that he'd know she wasn't going to try to wrestle the bottle away from him. Close enough to see how his cheeks were damp.

"I'm going after Schmitt," Steve said. "I'm not going to stop until all of HYDRA is dead or captured." 

There was a note of stubborn defiance in his voice that reminded her of the boy he'd been two years ago—so certain of what was right, no matter what other people or common sense might say. So certain that he would be told no. 

"You won't be alone," Peggy said gently, because some things would be necessary for the rest of them as well. Steve may have known him first, and longest, and best, but James Barnes had not been his friend alone. 

They sat in silence for a time, while Steve worked his way through another glass and Peggy watched the shadows lengthen and deepen against the wall. It was, in its own odd way, rather peaceful. Peggy couldn't remember the last time that she and Steve had been left alone together for so long, without interruptions. 

And then Peggy's stomach let out an embarrassing, empty gurgle, and she could hear the vicar of her childhood parish—Mr Ryland, kind and doddering despite possessing a beard like a true Victorian patriarch—saying, "To turn the phrase somewhat on its head, my dear Margaret, in the midst of death, there is yet life."

"Time for supper, I should think," she said, picking up first her bag and then the bottle, draining the dregs of it before setting it back on the table with a definitive thump. Steve looked up at her with wide eyes. "Don't sit there gaping, Steve, I'm quite certain that you need to eat something too. Come along."

No doubt there were many people—not least Peggy's own mother—who would question the propriety of her bringing an American soldier, and one who had been drinking, no less, back to her flat. But Peggy had not the least desire to go sit in a Lyons' Corner House to drink stewed tea, and propriety had never exactly been a watchword of hers, anyway. 

She kept a bed-sitting room within walking distance of headquarters, on a street which so far had remained mercifully untouched by the bombing. It was small, and she had to share the bathroom with three other women, but it was neat and convenient and comfortable. Peggy didn't really demand much else. 

"Sit," she told Steve when his hovering in the doorway got to be too much. He seemed outsized in the room, Gulliver in Lilliput, and having him constantly there and uncertain in the corner of her eye set her teeth on edge a little. She busied herself with setting the kettle to boil on the flat's most prized feature—a tiny gas cooker set, along with a sink, into an alcove on the wall nearest the door—and then produced the evening's culinary coup d'état. 

Peggy had never been wildly interested in home economics at school, and of late her sewing skills had been employed more to patch men up in the field than to embroider sofa cushions. Her cooking was passable, but never likely to win her accolades—except in instances such as this, when Steve's jaw dropped at the sight of her setting out a loaf of bread, a small block of real butter, and some slices of bacon. She had intended them as an indulgent weekend treat, but she was willing to share with Steve if it would help to bring him out of himself even slightly.

"How did you get—"

"A lady never reveals her secrets," Peggy said with mock primness, setting the frying pan to heat on the free ring. Not that she truly cared, one way or another, if Steve found out that the cost of a bacon sandwich made with real butter apiece had been three pairs of brand new nylons. It was worth it to see the way he savoured each bite of it, chewing carefully and slowly before licking his lips with real relish. 

When they finished, Peggy set the plates in the sink and made a fresh pot of tea. 

"Thanks," Steve said. The white and gold cup looked almost comically small with his hand wrapped around it. "Been a long time since, well…" His words trailed off and he shrugged; his face was still drawn but Peggy noted with satisfaction that there was a little more colour in his cheeks.

"That's not entirely true," Peggy said. "There was that little farm outside of Calais, that plate of croque-monsieurs…"

Steve choked out a laugh. "The look on that poor woman's face." 

Even without a super soldier's metabolism, Bucky had been more than capable of rising to the others' dare and had managed to fit not just one, but two, whole sandwiches into his mouth at once. A lesson, Peggy supposed, ably imparted by frenetic mealtimes in an overcrowded orphanage's refectory, though not one liable to be appreciated by a French farmer's wife. 

"I'm going to miss him," Steve said, jaw working, staring down at his cup as if it contained the secrets of the universe. 

"Yes," Peggy said, before draining the last of her tea. There would have been no point in denying that, even if she had been one for false consolation. 

Steve let out another one of those little half laughs, and scrubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand. "You're really something, Peggy Carter," he said, looking up at her with that same frank appreciation that she'd been unable to ignore for quite some time now. It was the same way he'd looked at her when she'd decided to let him know that he wasn't the only one waiting—when she'd dug out that red dress of hers, worn only once back in '39 and now smelling sadly of mothballs, and put it on with as much deliberation as if it were battle armour.

She remembered sitting in the dark of a cinema, the smug _harrumph_ Colonel Phillips had uttered under his breath when he'd seen the picture of her which Steve had carried inside of his compass. She thought of how abruptly they'd lost Barnes, with no time for last words, and maybe this wouldn't be the most appropriate time, maybe there was no romance attached to a faded bed-sitting room in an unfashionable part of London, but Peggy was, all of a sudden, very impatient.

"Just how long were you planning on waiting, Steve?" she asked, with perhaps a touch more asperity in her tone than she'd intended. 

Steve startled a little, tea slopping out over the side of his cup before he set it down on its saucer with a clatter. "Sorry?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"There's a war on," Steve said slowly.

"A very long war," Peggy said. "I had noticed."

"This isn't a—"

"Do you know what it was like," Peggy interrupted him, feeling her heart beat suddenly too fast, too loud, in her chest, "to sit there so close to the front, knowing that it was barely twenty miles and still thinking that you were…"

Steve stared at her. "Is this—you were, even when we were in Italy? But I, why would you—"

"Oh for pity's sake," Peggy said, because there was only so much a reasonable woman could take. She stood and rounded the little table. It had been a while since she'd been able to look down on Steve and she took a moment to reacquaint herself with his face from this angle—the bright blue of his eyes, the flush riding high on his cheekbones—before she stooped to kiss him. 

Steve's lips were warm against hers, a little hesitant, but when she smiled against his mouth he reached up to cup her cheek with one big hand. He made no move apart from that, didn't try to pull her closer, just seemed content to let her set the pace, for her to coax his mouth open and slowly turn the kiss deeper, hotter. 

When she finally pulled away, her back ached from how long she'd been bent over him, and her toes were curling against the soles of her shoes. Steve was looking up at her as if… well. It made the heat rise in her cheeks. "I can be patient," she said, "and some things are worth the wait, but sometimes—"

This time he kissed her.

*****

Peggy took him to bed. It wasn't what she had set out to do that evening; it wasn't even what she had intended to happen when she'd first kissed him. But, it seemed, there was no time like the present—might _be_ no other time but the present—and Peggy really was tired of waiting. 

They'd kissed for a long time, Steve steadily growing in confidence until his hands were tangled in her hair and her hands were braced against his shoulders, fingers curling into the strong muscles there. Steve always ran hot, another side effect of the serum on his metabolism, and being pressed so close to him made Peggy feel just the same, had her shivering on the borderline between languor and arousal. 

"Stay the night," she murmured. 

"I… okay," Steve said, giving that firm little nod he always gave when he'd made his mind up about something. His Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Yes."

Peggy gave him one last kiss, then excused herself for a moment, retrieved the little bag from her nightstand and went across the hallway and into the tiny bathroom. She wasn't particularly prudish about using a cap, but she didn't imagine that Steve would take it well if she inserted hers in front of him. Once done, she washed her hands, ran a comb through her now tangled waves and took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Buck up, Peggy," she told her reflection before she let herself back into her flat.

When she closed the door behind her, she saw Steve standing in the middle of the room, staring over at the bed. His hands were clenched in fists at his sides, and the set of his shoulders under the drab green of his uniform jacket was tense. Peggy remembered sitting in the back of a cab with him while he told her that he was waiting for the right partner, knew that whenever they were in London, Steve would quietly head out while the other Commandos were still asleep in order to attend the early service at the small Catholic church several streets away. She hesitated.

"We don't have to do anything, if you'd rather not," Peggy told him. "I won't be upset." She'd had flings at Cambridge and didn't feel any pangs of remorse about them, with the exception of waking up next to Giles Newham and his horrific morning breath after the May Ball one year. Steve, however, had never seemed the kind to go in for self-indulgence, no matter how light-hearted or how fleeting. 

"No, I…" Steve turned to look at her. "I do want to, Peggy." He walked over to her and kissed her again, slow and lingering and intent. "I want to with you." The quiet earnestness of his voice made something hot and liquid pool low in Peggy's stomach. 

"No more waiting?" Peggy said against his mouth. 

Steve shook his head, brought his hands up to rest them on her hips. "I know what I'm supposed to believe, but I also know what I'm not going to regret. You're right for me. I'm not… I'm not going to regret you. Don't think I ever could." 

She smiled and kissed him again, and then there was only the careful negotiation of divesting themselves of uniform jackets and shoes, even though neither of them seemed to be able to break away from the other for very long. They moved towards the bed, still kissing, a syncopated shuffle like a rather uncoordinated foxtrot, and by the time Peggy's calves bumped up against the mattress she was feeling more than a little breathless. 

Peggy started to unbutton her blouse, and Steve's eyes went wide at the sight of her brassiere, which was both flattering and a surprise, given how much time Steve had spent backstage in theatres across America. 

"So, uh," Steve said, rubbing at the nape of his neck, "I'm sort of new to this."

"Luckily, this is exactly the sort of thing which one must pick up as one goes along," Peggy said, shrugging her blouse off her shoulders and draping it over the stool at her dressing table before starting on the buttons of Steve's shirt. 

"No manuals, huh?" Steve said wryly, but he flushed red right to the tips of his ears when Peggy smirked at that. 

"Let's just start with the basics, shall we?" Peggy said, and coaxed Steve down to lie with her on the bed. They kissed again, and when Steve's shirt was finally discarded unceremoniously on the floor, Peggy discovered that his chest was as smooth and hard as she'd imagined it. Steve made very gratifying noises when she touched him, even more so when she took one of his hands and guided it to her breast. 

The feel of Steve's hand hot against her, even through the fabric of her brassiere, made Peggy shiver. Even when he was hesitant like this, looking back and forth between her face and his hand as if in need of reassurance, the fact that this was Steve was enough to have her aching for him. "Good," she told him, leavening her tone with conspiratorial amusement, "I like that."

"Could I…" Steve's fingers ran along the seam where the band of Peggy's brassiere met the skin of her rib cage, fingertips leaving bright flares of heat behind them. His touch was slowly losing its hesitance, turning teasing, curious. "Can you keep telling me what you like? Show me?"

"If you want me to," Peggy said, mirroring Steve's touch, up and down his arm and delighting in how goose bumps rose up in her fingers' wake. 

"Just want it to be good for you," Steve said, quietly serious, and what sparked in Peggy then was not just arousal but the sudden and complete conviction that she was in love with this man. Steve occupied her attention in a way few other men ever had—she had known that for a while. Yet she'd never truly let herself acknowledge that what she was caught by was more than the simple fact that Steve was handsome, more than a simple schoolgirl pash or even an appreciation for his dogged and single-minded bravery. She loved him. 

Peggy took a deep breath and pushed herself up. 

"Did I do something wrong?" Steve said, sitting up. 

"Quite the opposite," Peggy said, almost impressed with herself for how brisk she managed to sound even though she could feel her heart thudding in her chest, knew that her panties were growing damp. She squeezed her thighs together, nursing the sweet ache building between her legs, as she worked at undoing the zip of her skirt and unhooking her brassiere. "Well, come on. It's rather bad form to leave a lady waiting, Steve."

"Oh!" Steve said, "Oh, right," and then he too was standing, unbuckling and unzipping and not breaking eye contact with her the whole time he was undressing. His erection visibly strained against his boxer shorts, and his thighs made Peggy think things which were quite inappropriate. "Wow, you look… wow."

Peggy flashed him her wickedest grin. She stepped forward, right into the circle of his arms, and kissed him, loving the feeling of all that bare skin pressed against hers, enjoying the way Steve groaned into the kiss. "To clarify," she said, "I'm quite fond of this part as well."

Then she pushed him back down onto the bed and straddled him. Steve closed his eyes and shuddered, and the feeling of his erection against her was perfect. Peggy couldn't help the instinctive jerk of her hips, chasing that delicious friction even through two layers of fabric and startling another low noise out of Steve's throat. 

"We can take things as slow as you like," Peggy told him, "but I am going to want you inside me soon." 

Steve hissed at that, curling to sit up and kiss her with a passion at once startling and deeply pleasurable. His hands found their way into her hair again, fingers twining their way through her curls and blunt nails scratching against her scalp so that Peggy couldn't help but arch against him. 

She and Steve had been circling one another for more years now, cautious and waiting, but it seemed that once they'd both said yes, Steve wasn't particularly inclined to hold back. Peggy had no idea why she should be surprised by that—this was Steve Rogers after all, the man who was surely going to go down in history because of his unwillingness to take no for an answer—and saw no reason for restraint on her part, either. She laid a series of stinging bites along Steve's jaw, down the line of his throat, until Steve was gasping for air, his fingers clenching and trembling in her hair. 

"Peggy," he gasped, sounding breathless in a way that even running for miles couldn't make him anymore, and she let him roll her onto her back, the two of them fumbling underwear down to tangle around their ankles and then to be kicked away.

"Can I…" 

"Yes," Peggy said, spreading her legs and letting him see her. Steve ran the fingertips of one hand carefully up the soft skin of her inner thigh, up and up, to where she was already wet and ready for him. 

"You're beautiful," he told her, and then his long fingers were pushing into her, going so much further than Peggy could ever reach by herself, his fingers so much thicker than her own. The sensation was overwhelming even before he started moving inside of her, slow and steady crooks of his fingers in response to Peggy's shaky direction of him. She hadn't expected this—had thought that for the first time, at least, that Steve would want to do nothing more than fuck her. But this, oh, this was good, and she couldn't stop her hips from canting toward him.

"Oh, oh god," she said, feeling sweat trickle down her collarbone, "I, I can't, I need," as Steve pushed a third finger into her. Peggy couldn't remember ever feeling so desperate before, as if she were climbing at high altitude and couldn't quite catch her breath. She reached out and grabbed his other hand, pulled it towards her and showed him just the kind of pressure she needed against her clitoris, grinding herself against the heel of his palm. 

Let it never be said that Steve Rogers was a slow learner. It didn't take long before Peggy was coming, shaking, headboard rattling so loudly against the wall that she had no doubt earned herself filthy looks and pointed comments from her neighbours for weeks to come. When Peggy caught her breath again, she stretched, revelling in the feeling of easy lassitude that spread throughout her limbs, and grinned up at Steve. He looked a little stunned, blinking down at where his hands still rested, slick and sticky, on her thighs. 

"In case I wasn't clear," Peggy said, "I liked that too."

That startled a laugh out of Steve, and Peggy tugged at him until he realised what she wanted and moved to stretch out over her. She could feel the hard length of his erection pressed against her belly, and sated as she was the feel of it was enough to make her shiver with fresh arousal. Steve touched her everywhere as they kissed, hands moving along her arms and over her breasts, along the tender and ticklish skin of her sides. Peggy felt just as skin hungry, finally able to touch all that smooth, tanned skin which she'd admired for so long. 

"Peggy," Steve gasped, rubbing against her, head bowed, and Peggy was ready. 

She spread her legs, pulled up her knees, and gently took Steve in hand, guiding him down and into her. He was hard and thick enough to make her shudder, and when he started to thrust, abrupt and irregular at first, Peggy's head lolled back against the pillow. Even unpractised like this it was good, because it was Steve and he was looking down at her with an expression of startled delight, hair falling into his eyes and his fingers clutching against the coverlet. _The right partner_ , Peggy thought vaguely. She reached up to trace the outline of his smile before taking his hips in both her hands and starting to guide his movements. 

"Like this," she told him, rocking up to meet him and loving the sensations that sparked, feeling laughter well up inside her. "Just like this, darling." Steve wasn't trying to hurt her but he was still strong and heavy, his thrusts growing deeper as she taught him what she liked, and Peggy knew she was going to feel this tomorrow. No one would be able to tell when she walked down the hallways at the SSR or reviewed files at her desk, but she'd be able to feel him inside her still, and just the promise of that had her trembling in anticipation.

Steve was murmuring her name, over and over, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her collarbone with increasing sloppiness. Peggy slowly and deliberately tightened around him, liking the way that made Steve cry out hoarsely, and then she was kissing him as he shuddered and came hard and deep inside of her. She carded her fingers through his sweat-damp hair as Steve caught his breath, and then coaxed him down to lie beside her, slinging one of her legs over his. 

"I liked that too," Steve said, lips swollen from kissing and colour still high in his cheeks. "That was… wow. I mean, I knew, but I didn't know. You're amazing."

Peggy tugged a blanket up over them, nestled closer so that her head was resting against his chest. "Mmm," she mumbled, feeling sleepy and contented, "just wait until I teach you how to foxtrot."

She thought she could grow used to falling asleep with the sound of Steve's soft laughter in her ears.

*****

It was just before dawn when Peggy woke, to grey half-light and the chirping of some rather optimistic birds outside her window. At least an hour, then, before they had to be up and back at headquarters to hear what the Colonel had obtained from Zola's interrogation. Steve was already awake, staring still and unseeing out at the roofs of the building across the street, but when Peggy stirred he looked over at her right away. The smile that broke across his face made her breath catch. 

"Morning," Steve said and kissed her, before bobbing his head in the direction of the window and the birdsong. "You think that's our own personal Berkeley Square nightingale?"

"You're starting to sound like a bit of an incurable romantic, you know," Peggy said, shifting a little closer to him.

"Maybe," Steve said, cupping her cheek in one big hand. "But I've been right so far, haven't I?"

"So far," Peggy said softly. And perhaps it took a little imagination to transform the calls of some soot-stained London sparrows into those of a songbird, but they'd both made bigger leaps of faith before.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _I may be right, I may be wrong_  
>  _But I'm perfectly willing to swear_  
>  _That when you turned and smiled at me_  
>  _A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square_  
>  —"A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square" [[Vera Lynn version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTeiYN_Vq6E)]


End file.
